LIMINAL MAGAZINE — INTERVIEW #69Interview & Photography by James J. Robinson
As a child of diaspora, Angie Pai examines compromises inherent to living on the cusp of East and West.
Her multidisciplinary works reimagine the ancient teachings of Chinese philosophy within a present-day context, acting as meditations and remedies for millennial anxieties.
Angie talks to James about creating a 'home', belonging to two cultures, working towards tranquility, and using creative expression as a way to digest the world.
J: Angie, both of us have recently been going through a phase watching new Taiwanese cinema. How was it watching a Taiwanese film for the first time as an adult? Did you feel there was something that was represented in a Taiwanese film that you identified with or was empowering?
It was incredibly emotional and visceral — I stayed with you the first week I moved to New York and it felt like home. We watched Yi Yi and cried like a babies. As the film portrayed the Jian Family’s trials and tribulations, I realised it was the first time I identified with all the subtle nuances of a feature film. From the morbid jokes to colloquial conversation deeply embedded within cultural doctrines. It my other home. Unlike Hollywood blockbusters, new wave Taiwanese cinema spotlights down to earth quotidian portrayals of Taiwanese life. Sincere stories between urban and rural towns, progressing at realistic pace — directly contrasting the conventional Western structure of building the narrative to a climax. They are honest in examining national issues during the 80’s and 90’s. Thematically reflecting Taiwan’s rapid urbanisation, struggles against poverty, tensions with political authority and lingering tensions between traditional values vs. modern aspirations. I saw my parents in these characters and memories flashed back from my childhood. Fragments of dialogues I couldn’t understand, hiding behind doors as I witness my parents cry with my grandparents. I absorbed their pain and I hurt for them and I cried for the confused six year old me. These films gave me fuel to started a new chapter here. I wish I had known them to be such invaluable resources growing up. Seeing my culture in sublime cinematic portrayal made me nostalgic. Especially hearing dialogue in the Taiwanese dialect, which is a very intimate language. I felt distant relatives speaking with me, reaching their arms out for a hug.
You mentioned ‘home’ just now; what defines a home for you? Is there a sense of identity being tied to the place that you grow up? And if so, do you define yourself more as Taiwanese or more as Australian. And do you think there’s a difference?
I think a ‘home’ takes time to build. I haven’t figured out the formula yet. I imagine it’s a place where I feel at ease. I have a few too many perpetual anxieties and insecurities that I’m trying to shake off. This is likely informed by my constant self-negotiations of inherent identities with me. Belonging to multiple cultures can be a privilege where we get the best of both realms. Although for most of my life, I’ve felt some sense of identity homelessness. I’m actively working to change this perspective though. I’m considerably outspoken within my Taiwanese community, noted as the rebel child. I get worked up over outdated customs and refuse submission to male-centric Asian expectations. I’m certain there’s no malice, but sometimes Asian communities really j’adore telling you how to live. Sometimes I put up with it and dissociate, because the alternatives are emotionally laborious and exhausting. In contrast, within my Australian communities, I am often the most reserved. I become hyper-vigilant and often over analyse how I come across, which can feel counterintuitive. I live in a contradiction of myself sometimes, and I really hate it. Maybe ‘home’ is just a big fuck off to all that. A space where I can tune out from everything. Growing up, I would assimilate to Australian culture more than Taiwanese culture. This stemmed from innate desires to fit in. Nowadays, I probably identify more as Taiwanese. In times of strife, the familial values I’ve inherited have served as an anchor, allowing me to regain purpose.
You spoke about how you feel conservative around a lot of your other friends because there’s a tendency for people our age to be quite hedonistic. Is this something that you always felt growing up?
This is interesting because it relates to cultural doctrines rooted in Confucianism, specifically the virtue of filial piety, which doesn’t really exist in Western culture. The Chinese phrase is xiaoshun (孝順). Confucian principles are a complex system of moral, social, political, philosophical and quasi-religious thought that have had tremendous influence on the history of Asia. A core tenant expects citizens to be an extension of their family, of their society, whereby every action has direct implications for people within that community. At the extreme, this collectivism mentality overrides our ability to be individual - out of respect to elders. Although several Confucian ideals are inherently male-centric world (and thereby very sexist), there are other values I respect and admire. These have served as catalysts for personal endeavours. During adolescence, when I was being enticed into partying, having this intrinsic value system allowed me to know my standing, although it did make me an outcast. It’s taken practice for me to feel comfortable with boundaries. For someone who doesn’t drink much, doesn’t take drugs, doesn’t smoke and abides by a strict temple vegetarian diet, to exist in a very liberal friendship circle that feel intimidating. I’ve learnt that so long as I’m assertive, most friends respect my decisions as I do theirs. So this kind of conservatism hasn’t been a hindrance per se.
You recently talked to me about an experience that you had at a workplace in which there was a White queer male who said something the wrong way, which made you question your identity. Would you mind sharing what happened and how that made you feel, and how you feel now about the situation?
When I think about this situation, I’m hopeful there were no negative intentions. It came across so matter-of-factly… although perhaps that in inherently more concerning. This was an ex-colleague I was saying goodbye to as I quit a job (lol). He asked what my plans were moving forward. I told him I considered further studies in arts. I wanted to say that in this belly button of the globe (i.e.,New York), perhaps climbing the institutional ladder may be a safe-ish manoeuvre. It’s the same for anyone. But in this instance, I mentioned that as a woman of colour, trying to clock the brownie number equal to the average White male in the industry may hold utility. He cut me off and said “Woah, hold on. You consider yourself a person of colour ? Because in America I don’t think we consider Asians people of colour. Pigmentation-wise, you’re not dark. I would just be careful if you were labelling your work or ‘Person of Colour’? I just don’t want you getting in trouble. Maybe go home and look up the definition.” I mean - last time I checked, I wasn’t white. I was so shook I didn’t know how to respond. Upon reflection, I wish I was more confident. To know that I know. But for a second there I genuinely thought “Oh my goodness, have I’ve wrongly identified myself for the last 25 years? Maybe in America — we’re just not a part of the masses who are discriminated against?” It took a moment before my brain functioned again. Historically, Asian immigrants have been persecuted and discriminated against for not being white. Western histories around the globe describe Asians as “others” and “aliens” because our skin. I think it’s important to recognise that whilst Asians have different experiences to other people of colour in the US, this doesn’t mean that Asian narratives are invalid. We are still not white, and this inherently carries consequences. This reminded me to be more confident in my conviction.
Do you think these experiences of oppression you faced growing up as a Woman of Colour in Australia, has helped you self-actualise or find a way to identify yourself? For me, it can feel like a lot of work I’m pouring out is useless. That it’s not trying to say anything — but I feel the work I do which actually means something is always coming from this anger I have from the oppression growing up.
I mean we know infinite stories like ours, where POC children grew up wishing they were White. I think my anger hasn’t so much stemmed from personal experiences of oppression. My anger is a reaction to the ways my parents were treated. My mother had a high-end florist in Armadale (predominantly upper-middle class demographic of Anglo descent) where she made extravagant wedding flowers. There were many other florists on the street, and even though her flowers (in my opinion anyway) were just as beautiful as any other florist, customers would opt for arrangements from Anglo owners. I felt like we were of less value. This, alongside witnessing upfront & violent aggressions taking place daily, like drivers yelling “Go back to China” as they drove past, made me really upset. Creative expression has always been an avenue to digest the world. I think it my works come from a place of wanting to pay my due diligence. When I return to Taiwan and speak with my cousins, I realise how much knowledge regarding Asian history I lack and I feel like a bad citizen. I guess I don’t necessarily put work out because I’m angry about something. It’s about finding a part of myself that was always there, highlighting it, and screaming to the world I’m proud of her. I’d like to think that overcoming these hurdles (or at least trying to) makes me more resilient. In that sense, I’m glad they’re experiences I’ve learnt to harness.
Your exhibition ‘Gravity of Thought’ last year referenced ancient proverbs you found from Chinese culture?
I remember speaking with my friend Claire, and without knowing my calligraphic forms were ancient script, she told me “These remind me of scarification!”. That felt so poignantly true. She articulated my aspirations in words I wouldn’t have chosen myself. The calligraphic structures are phrases I grew up learning. Virtues stemming from Taoist philosophy. One such proverb, qingjing wuwei (清淨無為), is ‘the strive towards an unconditionally clear and tranquil mindset’. It’s derived from the Taoist practice of wuwei (無為), a concept literally meaning non-action or non doing. In the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu explains that all beings (or phenomena) that are wholly in harmony with the world behave in a completely natural and uncontrived way. Wuwei is believed to have two main objectives. (1) An attitude of genuine non-action, motivated by a lack of desire to participate in human affairs, and (2) a technique allowing one to gain enhanced control of themselves. Considering I am by definition the antithesis of 'tranquil and still', I thought this was a nice goal to work towards.
Do you have any advice for emerging artists?
Hold on to the practice of making work for yourself — make it selfishly.
Disregard what others may think. Then please tell me how you did it.
Who inspires you?
At the moment I’m inspired by Li Binyuan and Zhang Huan. These artists address evolving relationships between the body and the land in contemporary China through their practice. Comprising works that mirror shifts from collectivism to individualism, as well as tensions between the natural, the cultivated, and the urbanised.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
It means learning to harness the multifaceted aspects of my upbringing in a pragmatic manner.